He must really want to avoid being captured. The thought gave Murtagh pause. If that was Lyreth’s true motivation, then—

  He sprang forward. If he was right, delay would be deadly. With two steps, he closed the distance with Lyreth and, before the other man could back away, grabbed him by the shoulder with one hand while striking him in the jaw with a fist.

  Lyreth took the blow better than Murtagh expected, and a second later, he felt an answering blow against his left kidney. The pain made Murtagh’s eyes water, and his whole body went rigid, save for his knees, which buckled.

  Then Lyreth pushed against him, and they were falling together.

  A jarring thud as they collided with the floor. For a minute, the only sound was their ragged breathing as they wrestled across the flagstones. Up close, Lyreth smelled of wine and a cloying, peach-scented perfume that Murtagh found distinctly off-putting.

  The other man fought with desperate strength, but desperate or not, he was far weaker than Murtagh, and Murtagh soon gained the advantage. Lyreth seemed to realize his plight, for he resorted to the lowest of tactics and drove his thumbs into Murtagh’s eyes.

  Pain caused Murtagh to jerk his head back, and his vision flashed white and red, and sparkling stars exploded at the points where Lyreth’s thumbs contacted.

  They separated, and a second later, they were both on their feet, fists raised, hair tousled, teeth bared. Murtagh blinked. The world throbbed with reds and yellows, every line and angle outlined with a glowing halo.

  Several quick jabs followed, and then Murtagh grew impatient and rushed Lyreth. He was no longer a youngling, and he’d be thrice cursed before he let Lyreth again use him badly.

  He slammed Lyreth into a pillar, and the man’s head cracked against the carved stone.

  For an instant, Murtagh thought he’d won. Then a flash of silver by his belt caught his attention: Lyreth fumbling to draw a short-bladed dagger from under the hem of his tunic.

  Alarm spiked Murtagh’s pulse. He jumped backward, but too late: a burning line slashed across his ribs as Lyreth lashed out with the weapon.

  Murtagh resisted the urge to disengage. Instead, he stepped forward again and trapped Lyreth’s arm between their bodies. He caught the man’s wrist with his hand and bent it inward until the dagger pointed back at Lyreth, and before Lyreth could drop the weapon, he shoved the knife deep into Lyreth’s chest.

  Lyreth stiffened and let out a grunt, but he kept struggling against Murtagh, seemingly unwilling to acknowledge the wound. Murtagh knew he’d hit the man’s heart. He’d bleed out given enough time, but that could be a minute or more, and Lyreth was fighting with the same stubborn tenacity as a buck that had been struck in the chest by an arrow and refused to fall.

  This is taking too long. The thought came to Murtagh with cold clarity. Alín needed rescuing. More importantly, Bachel was still on the loose, which meant Thorn was in danger, even if some of the dragon’s wards remained. The contest with Lyreth was an unnecessary distraction, and a dangerous one at that.

  All anger left him then, and he stepped back and pulled the dagger free of Lyreth’s chest. A spray of crimson blood hit him, and the color drained from Lyreth’s face. The man flailed and scrambled after Murtagh, only to collapse into his arms.

  Keeping a firm grip on the dagger, Murtagh lowered Lyreth to the ground. Already he could see the light fading from Lyreth’s eyes. His first instinct was to let the man die. But he didn’t want to lose all that Lyreth knew.

  “Waíse heill,” he said, and placed his left palm against the wound in the man’s chest. It was a risky spell; he could be attempting to heal something that was beyond his strength or ability, but it was all he had time for.

  The spell had no effect.

  Lyreth chuckled. He sounded genuinely amused. Blood stained the corners of his mouth. “I’m charmed, remember? Your spells…won’t…work.”

  Murtagh ripped open the front of Lyreth’s tunic, convinced he would see one of Bachel’s bird-skull amulets hanging around Lyreth’s neck. But all he found was pale skin and the red-lipped line that was the wound into Lyreth’s heart.

  “What did you do?” he said, angry.

  Lyreth chuckled again, more weakly this time. “Bound wards to…me…. No need for…amulet.” His gaze wandered for a moment, and then he rallied and looked at Murtagh with undisguised spite. “You always were a…bastard.”

  And then he went limp, and his last breath left his body.

  Murtagh stood and looked down at the corpse. “No,” he finally said. “Eragon’s the bastard. Not me.”

  “A good kill, Murtagh-man,” said Uvek.

  Murtagh grunted. He motioned to the Urgal. “We’d better hurry.”

  CHAPTER XXIV

  Grieve

  As Murtagh ran with Uvek toward the temple’s inner sanctum, he quickly cast a basic ward against physical damage, and he was just beginning to formulate a ward that could protect him, or others, against the Breath when they arrived in the echoing room.

  There, waiting for them in the presence chamber, was Grieve and seven acolytes in their armor of leather scales. Grieve carried his iron-shod club; the acolytes carried spears and wooden roundshields.

  Neither Bachel nor Alín was to be seen.

  Uvek stomped his feet and bellowed, and the sound of his war cry echoed a dozen times off the high ceiling.

  “Where is Bachel?” said Murtagh, raising his voice over the echoes. He regripped Lyreth’s dagger. It was the only physical weapon he had.

  “That is none of your concern, Outlander,” said Grieve in his harsh tone.

  “I disagree. Tell me, and tell me where Alín is.”

  Grieve smiled grimly. “With the Speaker. She shall see to the little traitor. Now surrender, Outlander, or you shall surely die.”

  “You know I’ll never surrender.” Murtagh was already preparing for the mental assault he was convinced would follow.

  Grieve snorted. “Of course, but formalities must be observed. I’m glad for the chance to be rid of you, Rider. And you as well, Urgal.”

  Uvek let out a low growl. “You owe me blood, shagvrek, for death of Kiskû.”

  A disdainful sneer crossed Grieve’s face. “Was that your bird? Annoying thing. Uvek Windtalker, the greatest shaman of his people, and yet you chose to sit atop a mountain and talk to a bird for years on end. What a waste.”

  Rage darkened Uvek’s face, and he lowered his head so that, for a moment, Murtagh thought he was going to charge. “You are slave to dream, shagvrek. Is wrong-think to worship Bachel or Azlagûr. You crawl before them, happy for attention. Like dog.”

  Grieve snarled, his expression hateful. “I am no slave, Urgralgra.” He spat out the word as if it were invective. “I serve those who accepted me.”

  Uvek spread his broad arms. “Then let me give embrace. See how long you can stand welcome. Hrr-hrr-hrr.”

  Grieve lifted his club and pointed it at Murtagh and Uvek. “Kill the unbelievers.” And he drew forth a crystal vial and threw it at the mosaic floor.

  Murtagh had been expecting exactly that. Even as the vial flew through the air, he cried, “Drahtr!”

  The vial swooped back up, just missing the floor, and gently arced into Murtagh’s left hand. Grieve’s face contorted with rage, and he bellowed as the seven acolytes charged Murtagh and Uvek.

  Murtagh didn’t have time to slip the vial into the pouch on his belt before the first cultist was upon him. He sidestepped a jab of the man’s spear, sprang forward, and drove Lyreth’s dagger through the man’s temple.

  Good thing they’re not wearing helmets.

  He left the dagger where it was and snared the end of the cultist’s spear as the man fell. Holding it one-handed, he waved it at the other cultists while retreating. That bought him time to put away the vial, and then he had both hands on the haft of the spear. A fierce glee overtook him.

  Beside him, Uvek caught a man’s spear and used it to smash the cultist against the brazier in the center of the chamber. Sparks and glowing coals flew like a shower of meteors. Another of the Draumar jabbed Uvek in the upper arm, but the Urgal’s hide was so thick, the cut drew no blood.

  For the next minute, Murtagh and Uvek fought side by side. They were fit companions. The Urgal’s size and brute strength—as well as his unexpected speed—allowed him to break the line of Draumar and keep them on the defensive, while Murtagh felled his opponents with practiced ease.

  As they fought, Grieve stalked the perimeter of the battle, hefting his iron-shod club. But he continued to hold himself apart, content for the time to let his minions strive unassisted with Murtagh and Uvek.

  When just two of the cultists remained, and the glittering mosaic was slick with blood, then and only then did Grieve attack.

  His assault came as a surprise. Murtagh was focused on the Draumar in front of him—a stocky, slump-shouldered man with a streak of grey along his brow—and he nearly missed Grieve’s club as it swung toward him.

  Murtagh twitched and managed to deflect the devastating blow with his spear. At the same time, he felt the man’s mind driving against his own. And not just his; Uvek snarled and said, “You shall not have my thoughts, shagvrek!”

  The addition of Grieve to the fight shifted the advantage back to the cultists, for the witch’s adviser and right-hand man struck with a power Murtagh had not anticipated—he seemed nearly as strong as a Kull—and though ungainly, he was swift on his feet. Fending him off was like trying to fence with a savage animal, fierce and untrammeled.

  The five of them maneuvered around the pillars and the brazier in the center of the sanctum, each seeking to land a mortal blow. Murtagh stabbed his spear into the brazier and tossed a clump of coals at one of the remaining acolytes. The man ducked, and Murtagh moved in, only for Grieve to drive him back with swings of his heavy club.

  A painful stalemate held as they struggled to and fro. Their blows, parries, and occasional shouts echoed through the space, and a pair of dispossessed crows fluttered about near the crown of the ceiling, screaming at the combatants below.

  Then Uvek uttered a growl of frustration, and with one hand, he grasped the lip of the burning-hot brazier and flipped it over. Coals cascaded across the gory floor, and the heavy copper dish landed on the shoulders of a cultist, crushing him. A gong-like tone sounded.

  “Desecrators!” cried Grieve.

  Murtagh seized the opportunity to lunge forward and took the other acolyte in the throat. As the man sank gurgling and gasping to the floor, Uvek slipped his spear under the overturned brazier and stabbed the man struggling beneath its weight. The man went limp, and the brazier moved no more.

  “By Azlagûr, I curse you,” said Grieve, and spat on the floor.

  Murtagh snorted. “I’ve been cursed by better than you and lived to see them become food for worms.” He pointed his spear at Grieve. “Come now, dog. Meet your fate.”

  Grieve drew himself up, squaring his hunched shoulders, and his eyes rolled back to show white. “Azlagûr, hear the plea of your follower, Grieve the First. Let me defeat these unbelievers, and I shall—”

  Uvek did not let him complete the contract. The Urgal shouted, “No!” and rushed forward and struck at Grieve with the haft of his spear, using it as if it were a staff.

  The wooden pole snapped in two against Grieve’s robe, seemingly broken by the immovable fabric. But Murtagh knew the truth: a ward. Unsurprising, but unfortunate.

  A grim certainty settled over him: Grieve would be no easy opponent.

  He tried then to seize the man’s mind, even as Bachel and Grieve had attempted to seize his. But Grieve’s mental defenses were formidable, and in any case, the man gave Murtagh little time to concentrate, for he answered Uvek’s attack with a shower of blows from his club.

  Uvek caught one blow against his forearm. The force of the strike would have shattered a man’s arm, but the Urgal merely grunted and fell back while swinging the remnants of his spear to gain himself room to recover.

  Murtagh took the lead then, but he met with no more success. He jabbed, and Grieve parried. He feinted…and Grieve nearly caught him upside the head with the club. Every attack Murtagh made, Grieve seemed to perfectly anticipate.

  The same proved true as Uvek attempted to flank Grieve. Even working two against one, neither of them could slip past Grieve’s guard, and he kept landing blows with his club. The blows did not hurt Murtagh; he had his ward to protect him, but he was tiring and did not know how long he could maintain it. And they did hurt Uvek; the Urgal was limping now, and a plate-sized bruise marred his forearm.

  It occurred to Murtagh that he was treating Grieve as if the man were also a magician. But so far, he’d seen no evidence to that effect. If Grieve couldn’t cast spells, then there was no reason not to attack him with magic. But if he could…doing so might prompt a desperate and incredibly dangerous response.

  Crack! Grieve smote the middle of Murtagh’s spear. The wood snapped like dry straw, and he fell back.

  Shade’s blood! Enough with caution; magic was worth the risk! “Kverst,” said Murtagh, aiming his will at Grieve.

  He felt a quick drop in strength—as if he’d sprinted up a hill—but the spell had no effect on the man.

  Grieve laughed. It was a thoroughly distasteful sound. “You cannot break my mistress’s power, desecrator!”

  With Thorn, Murtagh felt sure he could, but Thorn was otherwise occupied, and Murtagh didn’t dare open his mind to reach out to the dragon. Regardless, he felt sure that Grieve had given him the answer: they had to defeat the man’s wards. And that required energy, magical or physical. In the end, there was no difference. When cleverness failed, effort was the key to overcoming spells.

  Murtagh threw his broken spear at Grieve and shouted, “Hold him off!” as he dashed toward the back of the chamber.

  Behind him, Uvek roared, and the Urgal’s footsteps thudded as he closed with Grieve.

  Bachel’s throne was missing from the dais—removed so that she might sit in state during the festival of black smoke. Where it had stood, the floor was dull and hollowed from uncounted years of bearing the heavy stone chair.

  At the back of the dais were a pair of shallow steps that descended to a recessed area where various ceremonial items were stored: robes, tapers, brass censers, the headpiece the witch had worn when he first met her…. Also, there was a chest of dark walnut, and Murtagh hoped it was where he would find—

  He threw back the lid of the chest.

  Yes!

  Zar’roc lay before him, a gleaming length of metallic beauty, red as blood, strong as hate, sharp as his will. The hilt found his hand, like an old friend, and he tore blade from sheath with a steely, slithering sound.

  Finally, Murtagh felt ready to confront their enemies.

  Nor was the sword just a sword. It was also a repository: a storehouse of energy that he had carefully gleaned in dribs and drabs, hoarding morsels in the great ruby of its pommel.

  He drew upon that repository now, and he said, “Brisingr!” At his command, the blade burst into a profusion of crimson flames.

  With the burning blade held at his side, he strode to Grieve, each step weighted with approaching doom. He swung, and the searing, incandescent edge came down upon Grieve’s brow—and stopped a hair’s breadth away, blocked by the man’s wards.

  Murtagh held Zar’roc against the slippery surface and pushed harder while pouring even more energy into the fire rising from the colored steel. The heat was blistering, and he narrowed his eyes as the stench of burning hair filled the chamber.

  “Now, Uvek!” he shouted.

  The Urgal lowered his horns and bulled forward, taking a heavy blow from Grieve’s club against his armored forehead. The impact would have killed any human, but Uvek did not even react. He grabbed the club with one enormous hand and held it motionless in the air while he beat Grieve about the ribs and shoulder with the broken haft of his spear.

  Grieve bellowed with anger, his face a mass of shifting shadows beneath the fiery blade. He wrenched at his club, fruitlessly trying to free it from Uvek’s iron grip. Then Grieve abandoned the club and made as if to duck out of the cage of their arms.

  “Brisingr!” Murtagh shouted again, and redoubled the strength of the spell. The flaming blade shone with blinding light, and drops of liquid fire fell onto Grieve’s wards, where they danced like beads of water on a hot skillet.

  Uvek struck once more at Grieve’s ribs: a mighty blow that shook the man and that Murtagh felt transferred into his hand through Zar’roc’s hilt. At that, Grieve’s skin went grey, and his ward collapsed.

  Murtagh sensed an instant of overwhelming terror from the man’s mind, and then Zar’roc sliced down through Grieve’s head, the enchanted blade burning its way through flesh and bone as if they were no harder than fresh-formed cheese.

  The sudden removal of the ward made it difficult for Murtagh to control the sword’s path. He struggled to arrest the swift descent of the blade even as Uvek released Grieve and twisted away, but Zar’roc’s blazing, razor-sharp edge severed the tip of Uvek’s right horn and touched him on the shoulder, near the collarbone.

  Uvek’s breath hissed between his teeth, and he growled as if meaning to attack. But he stepped back and clapped a hand over the cauterized wound.

  What remained of Grieve collapsed to the floor.

  Darkness compressed around them as Murtagh ended his spell, extinguishing Zar’roc.

  “Gzja!” said Uvek, and spat on Grieve’s body. “You no more throw rocks at birds. Now Kiskû rest easy.”